


On the Devil's Back

by DeHeerKonijn, Roselightfairy



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crack, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Roleplay, explicit images
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24516391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeHeerKonijn/pseuds/DeHeerKonijn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: Gimli knew nothing could harm him here – knew of the unseen companion who shadowed him through the trees – but still it made him shiver with an almost deliciously-fearful anticipation.  Anything could happen here tonight . . . anything at all."Anything at all" is right.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 62
Kudos: 213





	1. Chapter 1

Eryn Lasgalen at night was nearly as dark as the Mirkwood Gimli remembered, the few times he had passed through it before the end of the war. The oppressive gloom, the ominous sense of foreboding, was lessened now, but the trees still grew so thickly together that very little light filtered through the canopy – and at night, in places like this where the growth was densest, even the stars were not visible.

Gimli knew nothing could harm him here – knew of the unseen companion who shadowed him through the trees – but still it made him shiver with an almost deliciously-fearful anticipation. Anything could happen here tonight . . . anything at all.

He strained his ears despite himself, seeking any sound of pursuit, and found nothing. A rustle here and there, but those might be made by owls or bats or any passing nightlife.

Or perhaps not.

Up in the trees, a twig snapped.

Gimli jumped, a tiny gasp huffing through his lips, a cold anticipation flooding his stomach. Now?

He whirled, and – nothing.

No. Not yet, of course. He relaxed, but some instincts in him were already awake, that on-edge feeling that had served him well for so many years, flushing cold energy through his veins. His senses felt heightened; every sound sparked something bright inside him.

He reached up to tug at one of his braids – youth’s braids, the style of a new warrior out on his first assignment. Why he would have been sent into Mirkwood first of all, he did not know – but he supposed it did not matter.

Another rustle, louder than the rest. Gimli spun towards the trees where he had heard it, his heart leaping into his throat on instinct – but still, nothing.

He took a deep breath and turned back to the path.

And then, behind him – on the opposite side from where he had heard the rustling – the woods came to life.

He barely had time to turn before a black-cloaked figure was exploding out of the trees towards him; he fumbled for the knife at his belt, but he was too inexperienced; his fingers were too slow, and they had only grazed the handle before a different set of slim fingers closed around it and plucked it from his sheath, tossing it away into the distance.

“A brave effort, dwarf,” hissed a voice in Gimli’s ear – too close to his ear, awakening shivers all up and down his neck. “But you will need to be faster than that to harm an elf.”

“An elf?” Gimli gasped. The cold tingling in his blood had drawn close to the surface, icy hot now – the surge in his belly nearly burned with its intensity. All young dwarrows knew the tales of the elves who haunted these woods – of the way they would lure innocent dwarves to their doom and drag them off to perform unspeakable rites on them – that those dwarves would never be the same again, if they were lucky enough to come home at all.

A soft, sinister laugh, close to his ear – and then in a smooth motion Gimli’s arms were yanked behind his back and a cord drawn into a knot around his wrists. The bonds were tight, but surely he had the strength to loosen them – but his captor’s arms rested close around him as he worked, his breath still whispering over Gimli’s ear, and for all the energy that thrilled through Gimli’s veins, he could not bring himself to move.

“An elf indeed,” the figure said when he had finished, and then he drew away and threw back the hood of his cloak.

Gimli gasped, despite himself. His hair streamed down his back, glowing gold even in the darkness of the forest; his face was pale as the nonexistent moon and hauntingly, terribly beautiful. He was tall and slender and looked almost divine, and in that moment Gimli could do nothing but fall to his knees.

“That’s more like it.” The elf bent over him, and Gimli looked up despite himself. From this angle he could see that the elf was naked beneath the cloak, that his body was just as perfectly-formed as his face . . . and that he was aroused.

A pulse ran through Gimli, sharper and hotter than the rush of tingling fear before, slicing the breath out of his lungs. Between his legs, he felt a throb as he too began to rise.

Surely the elf could see it – Gimli had heard tales of the impossible senses of elves, and even as he thought that, the elf’s mouth curled up in a wicked – and inviting – smile.

“Very good,” he breathed, nearly crooned – and then in one sudden motion he seized Gimli’s shoulders and wrenched him to his feet. “But not just yet.”

“Not yet?” Gimli managed, still breathless. “What – what do you mean to do to me?”

The elf bent in close to Gimli’s ear once more – but this time, instead of whispering anything, he bit: a short, sharp nip that had Gimli jumping and yelping – and wriggling despite himself against the next pulse of sensation between his thighs.

“Come with me,” he said then, turning Gimli with an irresistible grip on his shoulders and beginning to walk them both deeper into the woods, “and I will show you.”

* * *

* * *

The walk back to the palace felt much slower without the breathless anticipation that had accompanied Gimli on his way here – or the satisfied heaviness in his limbs he had hoped for when departing earlier this afternoon. He stumbled along in silence, the mess of his frayed braids matting in the slime smeared over his face and chest – rapidly losing its glow as it dried, and nowhere near as exciting as it had been when Legolas traced it in patterns over his body.

“Unh!” The huff of air escaped his lips involuntarily as one of his boots caught on a root – but Legolas’s hand caught his shoulder before he could fall, pulling him back upright. Still the elf did not say a word.

Gimli ventured a look over. Legolas had draped his black cloak loosely back over himself, fastened carelessly in front. The scum was drying on his face as well, and strands of hair had caught in it and begun to stiffen into spikes. Still he would have been impossibly beautiful, if not for the scowl still firmly in place on his face.

Gimli sighed and squeezed the hand still on his shoulder in thanks. He thought Legolas’s frown might have lessened just a little, but it was difficult to tell.

“The altar was a nice touch,” he ventured, hopeful.

It had been the wrong thing to say. Legolas made a sound suspiciously like “Hmph,” and pouted harder.

In truth, it echoed Gimli’s thoughts exactly. With another heavy sigh, he turned to face forward again, and they resumed their trek in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some bonus content for this fic on [DeHeerKonijn's Twitter](https://twitter.com/deheerkonijn/status/1268282670540296194) if anyone wanted some more grumpy Legolas. ;)


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to Erebor prompts an unanticipated (and undesired) reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! There's more!
> 
> ...We're actually done this time.
> 
> ...Probably.

Their visit to Erebor promised to be much less eventful than their brief stay in Lasgalen. Gimli’s parents were slowing down; it was plain to be seen – and though both were yet hale and greeted them heartily, their visit consisted of much more sitting peacefully in the living room and talking, taking over the chores that were difficult for aged dwarves’ hands to manage, than gamboling about in the woods.

Which, given what had happened with that gamboling about, could only be a good thing, Gimli thought privately to himself. After their visit to Lasgalen, he could do with a bit of peace – and no unpleasant surprises.

Or so he thought.

On the third day of their visit, Glóin returned from a visit to a friend with news. “It is said that a scouting patrol is returning today,” he said, settling himself comfortably back into his armchair with a relieved sigh. “Gimli, it is from the patrol you once served as a young warrior. Perhaps there will be some friends of yours among them.”

“Adad,” Gimli began. If it was the patrol he had joined when he was young, it was rare for any warrior to remain in that group for longer than fifteen years, aside from the leaders who had made it their mission to train the younger dwarves. “I doubt that any of my acquaintances are yet among that unit” –

“Still,” Glóin insisted. “You surely have much in common. I am sure they would be proud for the opportunity to learn from such an esteemed dwarf!”

Gimli sighed. His father had grown more difficult to contest, his stubbornness only increasing as he aged – and anyway, the matter was so small it was not worth upsetting him. He cast a sideways glance at Legolas, and Legolas shrugged as if to say, _as you decide_.

“Very well,” Gimli said. “I am sure you are right. We will gladly go to greet them.”

* * *

The dwarves were being welcomed back in the grand entry hall – they had just arrived, it seemed, and were being assailed with questions about their journey. It seemed that the return of a patrol was still as great a curiosity as it had ever been, despite the fact that dangers on the roads had so lessened since the fall of Sauron. Gimli wondered if it were true everywhere that no one – elder dwarves especially – could quite bring themselves to trust the victory. Six years was not so long, after all.

“Gimli!” It was Mjothar, his old weapons master – one of the few of his teachers who had not yet retired. “Ah, and Master Legolas. I have not yet had the opportunity to greet you. Welcome to Erebor!”

“Thank you,” said Legolas, bowing with the air of one who had known dwarvish courtesy all his life. “It is always an honor to see my husband’s esteemed teachers.”

“And you, Gimli,” said Mjothar. “How have you been? I hope you are not growing slow in your old age!”

Gimli laughed, bowing as well to the dwarf who was at least eighty years his senior. “I hope I would not disappoint my masters.”

“Ah, never.” Mjothar clapped him on the shoulder. “Ah, but come! Some of my students have returned from their mission – I assume you are here to greet them?”

“At my father’s urging.” Gimli winked. Mjothar knew Glóin’s pride – and obstinacy – as well as anyone.

The dwarves in question still stood with their backs to Gimli and Legolas, talking animatedly to the others who had come to greet them. Gimli looked them over with a dutiful eye, but none of them looked familiar to him. So much for Glóin’s insistence –

Beside him, Legolas went rigid.

Gimli frowned. “Legolas?” he murmured – and then the first dwarf turned around.

Her eyes went wide as soon as she saw Gimli, and an overwhelming flood of memory crashed down upon Gimli. He had seen this face before, not even a week ago – had seen it fixed in exactly that expression of shock, as she stared through the bushes at him and Legolas – and then still later, as she stood beside Legolas with an axe held steadily and threateningly just at hip level while her companions sliced through Gimli’s artfully-tied bonds –

A sharp breath huffed through Legolas’s nose.

“Frel?” said one of the dwarves beside her – and oh, _yes_ , Gimli knew that voice, though now it was softer than when it had barked, “Stop, fiend!” at his husband. Now it was the same concerned tone that had been directed at Gimli as he had lifted him from the stone altar – ignoring his explanations – and begun to frantically wipe at the meaningless markings drawn over his naked shoulders, assuring him that he was in safe hands now.

That dwarf too turned to face them, and made a noise as if he had swallowed his own tongue.

Mjothar, it seemed, had noticed nothing. “Well, I am sure my warriors will be pleased to meet such great heroes. Come, come!” Before Gimli could stay him, he beckoned the other dwarves closer, and Gimli watched them all turn, one by one, the smiles vanishing from their faces as they took in the elf and dwarf who stood before him. “Bamor, Frel, Rói, Atin – this is one of my finest pupils, Gimli, son of Glóin. Gimli, these are” –

“We’ve met.” Gimli could not help cutting him off. Now, fully dressed and viewing them in the well-lit hall, he could almost pity them. The poor dwarrowdam who had been introduced as Frel had not lost the expression of horror. As Gimli watched, her eyes flicked down to Legolas’s midsection, then back up. Her cheeks had gone bright red.

_Almost._

“You have?” Mjothar looked surprised. “You had been long away from this patrol by the time they began their training. Did you encounter one another somewhere else?”

“You might say that,” Gimli said dryly – though he did not think Mjothar would like to know the situation of the encounter.

Beside him, Legolas twitched: a tiny motion of chest and shoulders accompanied by the smallest sound – like a half-cough stifled in his throat. “Excuse me,” he said loudly. “Master Mjothar, it was a pleasure, as always.” He bowed politely to the old dwarf, swept a withering gaze over the four warriors who looked as though they would like to sink into the ground, and then whirled around in a flurry of cloak that Gimli swore he had only seen from Thranduil before.

“If you will pardon me as well,” he mumbled, bowing to his weapons master – and then he turned and hurried after his husband.

* * *


End file.
